Assorted Person of Interest Stories
by SeveRemus
Summary: I'm putting all of my 1-chapter POI stories here with an M rating to be safe. Some of them will be just fluffy, but all will be either implied or overt Rinch. SOME STORIES HAVE BEEN MOVED TO MY NEW WEBSITE DUE TO MATURE CONTENT.
1. Mr Tall, Dark, and Handsome

Mr. Tall, Dark, and Handsome

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><p>AN: In Episode 2, Reese went to the software design company where Finch (known as Harold) was working as his cover. One of his female coworkers seemed very curious about Reese. This story is from her POV.

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><p>I'd never really spoken to Harold. He was a quiet, mousy man with a pronounced limp who came in quietly to do his work, ate his lunch in the breakroom without joining in the conversation unless it was necessary, and left just as quietly after he'd put in his hours. He usually came in at the same time every day, but as a programmer he had flex hours and would sometimes come in an hour or two later. He took a lot of personal days, too, but someone had once suggested that he probably had to go to physical therapy, which seemed reasonable enough. I've worked at IFT for seven years, five as the office manager for our division, and he'd been a fixture for as long as anybody could remember. Frankly, I'd never really thought much about him. Computer geeks aren't my type, and Harold practically had a giant "L" for Loser tattooed on his pasty forehead.<p>

I'm on the lookout for Prince Charming, you know? Mr. Tall, Dark, and Handsome. Someone who could make a girl melt with just a look. Not that I ever expected to find him at work – aside from the geeks, there were managers like Dave who made you want to run screaming from the building, and of course the few nice guys were already married. Although some of them were willing enough to have some fun, if you know what I mean, but nothing serious. Not anything like a _permanent_ relationship.

So imagine my surprise when Mr. Tall, Dark, and Handsome walked into the office. Nice suit, no tie, but he pulled it off like a Calvin Klein model and made it look professional to boot. Long legs and an ass to die for (I checked). Of course as office manager, I went up to him right away.

"Can I help you?"

"I hope so," he smiled. God! His eyes sparkled like jewels. His voice was smooth and sexy as hell, too. "I'm looking for Harold."

"Oh!" I couldn't hide my surprise. "Of course. His desk is over there, but I don't think I've seen him yet today..."

"I'll just wait at his desk if you don't mind. He should be coming in soon."

I could listen to him read a phonebook!

"Of course. Can I get you some coffee while you wait?"

"No thanks."

He smiled, and I swear I almost wet my panties!

"Well, just let me know if you need anything."

"Thank you."

I watched as he ambled over to Harold's little cubicle (again, great ass) and sat down, hidden from view. Too bad! He was definitely eye candy – I could lap him up for hours. But now I couldn't help wondering what he wanted with Harold. He wasn't an IFT employee, that's for sure, and I think I would've remembered him if he were one of our clients. Besides, Harold was just a low-level software programmer – why would a client go to him directly? And Harold had never had any visitors before, at least in all the years that I've been here.

My curiosity was piqued, but just then I saw the top of Harold's ridiculous, pointy hair as he came out of the elevator with his distinctive gait. I walked towards him and stifled my first impulse to demand the sexy Mystery Man's name on the spot, settling for greeting him with a simple "Hello, Harold," instead. He looked taken aback and mumbled "Hello." Okay, so maybe I hadn't been all that friendly to him, but come on, I _had_ said "hello" to him once or twice before!

I wanted to see his reaction to finding Mystery Man in his cubicle, so I walked down another aisle parallel to his. He got intercepted by Dave, poor guy – that man could give a slave driver tips! But when Harold finally got to his desk and found his visitor, he looked about as startled as I'd expected him to be, and sat down awkwardly. I couldn't see either of them from this angle, so I went to the printer next to the pillar and pretended to be collecting some documents.

When I peeked around the pillar, Mr. TD&H (Tall, Dark, and Handsome, of course) was talking to Harold and – oh my god – _smiling_ at him! Those dark, blue-gray eyes were glittering with humor as he made animated gestures, even showing him the little bandage on his hand (I'd noticed that when I'd checked for a ring). He looked so eager and excited, transforming his already-handsome features into a truly heavenly sight, that I wondered how Harold could be exposed to it in such close proximity without turning into a puddle of geek, even if he didn't swing that way.

I know _I_ was ready to melt into a puddle by the time Mr. TD&H pulled out a small black box. No, not a jewelry box or anything, just some sort of mechanical device – something technical and geeky. Harold took it and slipped it into his briefcase after looking at it. He obviously knew what it was, and kept talking to his friend for a few minutes. Their conversation seemed rather intense from that point on, so I wondered if they were talking business. Even then, with his serious game face on, Mr. TD&H had high Melt Potential.

He left rather abruptly, so I didn't have time to get back to the entryway to greet him again as he left – it would've been too obvious if I'd run, of course. But there was Harold, still looking somewhat shell-shocked (although honestly, with that hair he almost always looks shocked) in his cubicle, so I went up to him while keeping one eye on the retreating figure (okay, ass) of Mr. TD&H.

"So... who's your friend, Harold?"

He gave me a blank look (which might be just his normal expression, come to think of it) and turned to look down the aisle where Mr. TD&H was all-too-quickly disappearing. He opened his mouth to say something but at first nothing came out.

"He's a... a consultant for a private security firm," he finally managed. "I've been helping him with some software issues."

"Oh, is he a client?" I asked, feigning ignorance. I knew damn well that he wasn't.

"Uh, no... just a... personal acquaintance. I didn't expect him to come here. I will discourage him from distracting me during work hours in the future."

Of course he must've thought that I would report him for moonlighting, especially having his sideline business associate stop by the office, but as long as he put in his time for the company, what did I care?

"Well, don't discourage him on _my_ account," I told him with a meaningful smile. I didn't know if he would get the hint, but Mr. TD&H was welcome to drop by anytime in _my_ book!

However, the startled look that Harold gave me then let me know that he _did_ get my drift, and also – belatedly, I realize now – made me consider for the first time that maybe, just maybe, I might be barking up the wrong tree. He stared at me like I'd just made a pass at a married man, or someone equally unavailable. In fact, he was looking at me like I'd made a pass at _his_ boyfriend!

Feeling a little dizzy, I went back to my desk and tried to sort out my impressions. Impeccably dressed – check, but not necessarily an indication that he was gay. No ring – check. Beautiful eyes – irrelevant, but check. Lovely ass – also irrelevant, but check. Gentle, soothing voice – again irrelevant, but check. He _had_ been rather animated when he'd talked to Harold, leaning in towards him and talking in low, earnest tones, but his hand motions hadn't looked _that_ faggy... but what did I really have to go on? I hadn't watched him long enough to make any definitive judgments about his sexual orientation, or even his marital status – just that he wasn't wearing a ring.

But then, the more I thought about how happy he'd seemed to talk to Harold – how excited he was to give him that black device, even to show him his bandaged hand – the more I realized that whatever business he'd come to do had been an excuse. His real purpose in coming to the office had been simply to _see Harold_. Of course! He had smiled so sweetly, with an endearing hint of shyness, at our unassuming Harold; he had talked so eagerly with him, almost as though he were anxious to win his approval. His eyes had practically _sparkled_ when Harold had shown up, his pleasure at surprising him obvious, and his whole demeanor had changed from businessman to naughty little schoolboy.

Oh. My. God. Mr. Tall, Dark, and Handsome was Harold's boyfriend. That little mechanical box might have been the equivalent of a bouquet of red roses for a computer geek like Harold. Thanks for a good time last night? Don't worry about my hand where you bit me? Ewww!

There is no justice in the universe. How could such a fine specimen of a man be interested in a geeky guy like Harold? He was practically a cripple, and even when he'd been talking to Mr. TD&H, he hadn't so much as smiled to acknowledge his attentions. What charms could Harold possibly possess to attract a man like that?

Life is _so_ not fair!

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><p>A few days later, the first thing I heard when I got upstairs was that Harold had cleaned out his desk early that morning. There were rumors that he'd been transferred, but Dave claimed (rather nastily, like he enjoyed the thought) that Harold had been fired. I wondered if his moonlighting had been found out – of course <em>I<em> hadn't said anything about it to anyone, but I wouldn't put it past Dave to have bugged Harold's phone or had IT check his e-mails to uncover something like that. Harold was a good performer, but he didn't know how to stand up for himself, and guys like Dave seemed to have an instinct for bullying guys like Harold.

I was surprised to see Mr. TD&H come back to the office, looking for Harold, but I was happy to inform him of what I'd heard. He seemed just as surprised as the rest of us that Harold wouldn't be here anymore – and almost heartbroken, as though he felt responsible. I might have read that into his expression, but his eyes were so soulful and sad when I told him about Harold that I couldn't help but think that he regretted having come to the office before, in case that had led to Harold being fired.

I wondered, though, that Harold hadn't told him yet about what had happened, regardless of whether he'd been transferred or laid off. Was it perhaps too traumatic for him to process? Or maybe, did he not want his friend to feel responsible for it? But somehow I felt sure that Mr. TD&H would get to the bottom of it. It was obvious (in retrospect) that he cared for Harold very much, and I got the sense that he was a man of action and determination.

So, Harold... wherever you are, whether you've been transferred or laid off or simply decided to quit, I hope you appreciate your tall, dark, and handsome friend. It's a rare gift when anyone cares about you, truly, and even more so when someone that good-looking cares for someone as unremarkable as you and me. Maybe you _do_ realize that, and maybe you actually quit of your own volition to make your sideline business your main occupation – so that you could work more closely with Mr. TD&H. I hope that's the case. And I do wish you luck and happiness, even though I have to admit to more than a twinge of envy. But I hope, if you ever think of me, you would wish me the same.


	2. DELETED Cracking the Code

Cracking the Code

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This story did not comply with FanFiction dot net's content policy and has been relocated to my new website, TheaNishimori dot WordPress dot com.


	3. Neighborhood Watch

Neighborhood Watch

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><p>AN: Finch's first stakeout is filled with surprises. Missing scene in 1.13 "Root Cause" from Finch's POV.

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><p>I'd insisted that we use my Buick for the stakeout since it was roomier than his Volkswagen and had heated seats. I had dressed warmly, of course, as per his instructions, but my injuries did not take kindly to being cramped in the same position for a long time or being chilled. I connected the car CPU to my laptop in order to monitor the battery drain, and John seemed to appreciate the extra comfort as well, even though he'd been slightly amused by my suggestion at first. He must think I'm such an amateur... a softie.<p>

His remark about bringing an empty water bottle had been a rude (if practical) insight into his world. _This_ was what he did, day in and day out. It was what he'd been trained to do, and what I'd hired him for. It was only fitting that I should experience some of the discomfort and... inconveniences... that he was forced to endure on a regular basis. I'd brought wet wipes and hand sanitizer, though, hoping to make things cleaner, at least, if not less embarrassing.

Once I'd hacked into all of the Powells' computers and retrieved the necessary information, there was very little to do except watch their house for any signs of suspicious activity. Not that I'm good at that sort of thing – I could barely distinguish the shrubbery from the shadows – but John's eyes kept up a continual search of the perimeter, making sure that no intruders were trying to break in to harm (or kill) our Number. I closed the laptop and tucked it into the glove compartment, leaving only the program monitoring the car battery on.

"Shit!"

I was startled to hear John swear and turned towards him.

"Put your seat back – as far as you can," he demanded, and I complied as quickly as I could, thinking that he needed to see around me or behind me, possibly even to shoot his ever-ready gun. He was certainly shifting his weight about in a hurry while the electric motor of my seat lowered me slowly towards the back of the car, but instead of looking out of the windows on my side, he was focusing inward, on me.

"What is it?" I managed to ask, unsure what the threat or problem might be.

"One of the neighbors just spotted us," he replied with a short nod in the direction of the house we were parked in front of. "Are you comfortable?"

"As much as I can be, yes," I answered, still with no idea as to how he was going to rectify the situation. He had propped himself up out of his seat, leaning into the middle of the cabin over the gear shifter. "What are you proposing to do?" I asked nervously.

"Make us look... less suspicious," he murmured in that soft voice of his, and before I had a chance to press him for more information, he had placed a hand on the armrest next to me, wedged his left knee on the seat between my thighs, and was lowering his body directly over mine.

"Reese, wha—" I tried to protest, but my words were cut off when my lips were sealed – quite literally – by his. My brain shut down as I felt the warmth of his chest press up against me and the wetness of his lips moving, plucking at my lips and the skin around it. I felt unable to breathe although my nose was in no way impeded by his actions, but could do nothing about it. I was simply too stunned by what was happening.

I had just opened my mouth to speak, but even if I hadn't, I might have been gaping at him by now. At any rate, he took advantage of my paralysis to stick his tongue inside of my mouth and run it over the roof and behind my upper teeth. I hardly knew what I was doing as I grabbed fistfuls of his coat – in fact, I didn't even have the presence of mind to push him away. My entire consciousness was focused on that tongue as it rubbed against my own, prodding it from below as if to stir it into action. Needless to say, I was in no condition to respond.

My eyes had closed of their own accord, and in the darkness my world was reduced to the sounds of his mouth as he seemingly tried to suck the life out of me, the sensations of his tongue and lips as they assaulted my counterparts, and the feeling of his hands roving over my body, slipping underneath my coat and jacket to explore my chest and ribs. I needed air, I needed answers, I needed help...

Perhaps sensing my distress, John pulled his mouth away from mine and planted a trail of kisses along my jaw line to my ear.

"Relax, Harold... I won't hurt you. Just try to... enjoy it."

My benumbed mind couldn't begin to formulate an answer, but my vital organs, at least, were built for survival: I gasped for air like a drowning man. I could feel a chuckle reverberate through John's stomach and into mine, since they were pressed so close together.

"You can breathe through your nose, Harold... unless you'd rather have me breathe for both of us..."

I drew in another deep breath before John's mouth clamped over mine again, and found, to my relief, that it _was_ possible to breathe through my nose, which made things a bit more manageable. By the time my heart rate had come down to an acceptable rate, I had processed the fact that he was kissing me, not trying to suck out my soul like some monster out of a horror movie. _Why_ he was kissing me was a concept that still eluded me, but as I grew accustomed to the new sensations, I found that there was a rhythm of sorts to what he was doing.

His lips were mouthing over mine as though he were talking, repeating some unknown mantra, their inner softness scraping over the slight stubble on my upper lips and chin. His tongue reinserted itself between my teeth to rub the roof of my mouth or the surface of my tongue in time to his wordless mouthings. At one point I felt his saliva seeping past my lips, but he quickly sucked it – as well as my own – back into his mouth, which caused a strange turmoil in the pit of my stomach. But his hands were also moving over my skin (indirectly, through my dress shirt) distributing warmth and something more... a gentleness, a tenderness, that made me actually _crave_ those touches, much to my own surprise.

His tongue began its insistent prodding again, then turned into long, powerful strokes that reached under the base of my tongue and dragged up and out towards its tip, over and over. It impressed upon me how strong a muscle that particular organ really was. I didn't have the foggiest idea what he wanted me to do, but I tried reaching my tongue out towards his to see if I could block him or at least get him to stop his persistent attack. It only made him change tactics, as now he twisted his tongue to touch mine, almost as though he were... _tasting_ me. And indeed, I could certainly taste the double espresso that he had been sipping. Sour, bitter, nutty, and sweet... I don't care for coffee, but somehow, tasting it secondhand on his tongue, made it seem... strong, and masculine... the perfect flavor for the man I knew him to be.

One of his hands moved up to my face and caressed it, playing with my ear and stroking my cheek. It was all a little overwhelming, but served to remind me that _I_ had hands, too. Which were, at the moment, still uselessly clutching his coat. It finally crossed my mind that I could push him away, but as he was lying on top of me, gravity – as well as his innate strength – would work against me. I abandoned that idea and wondered how he would like it if I began touching _his_ body the way he was taking liberties with mine. I slipped my hands under his coat, then found the edges of his suit jacket and slid my fingers around his waist towards his back.

"Mmm... Harold..." he moaned.

I froze, wondering if I'd hurt him, belatedly remembering that he wasn't completely healed from his gunshot wounds yet. As the haze of my initial shock wore off, I was able to rationalize that it was not his intention to cause me pain (he had just assured me of that) and therefore I should not retaliate in such a way, either. However, he was placing more weight on my body now, as though he were testing to see how far he could go without my protesting. It was not painful yet, but was bordering on uncomfortable. Of course, as far as personal space was concerned, it had long since exceeded a tolerable threshold.

"Harold... Touch me, Harold," he whispered in my ear, and for the first time I began to doubt my senses. This whole experience was turning into some surreal sort of nightmare. Had he really said that? There was only one way to find out. I slid my hands up his back, away from the area where I knew he'd been injured, and rubbed up and down along his spine. He moaned again but didn't pull away; if anything, he pressed himself even closer to me.

"Ohhh... Harold..."

His voice seemed to curl around my ears to send tendrils into my brain. His hands were touching me, conveying his heat and – what was it? Want? Desire? _Lust?_ – to my skin. I realized that I was no longer simply rubbing his back but was pulling him down, closer against my own body. I _wanted_ to feel his warmth, to be touched by his hands, and to have my mouth plundered by his tongue and lips. As though he could read my mind, John wrapped his arms around me, under me, and devoured my mouth again.

That's when I felt it: the hardness of his erection against my hip. At first I only noticed something hard pressing at the base of my leg (my uninjured side, thankfully) but then my sluggish mind figured out what it was, based on its location on John's body. And it dawned on me that John really was "enjoying" this – that he was excited, aroused by this... whatever this was. That he was aroused by _me_.

It was enough to make me stop breathing again, although not for long – my instincts for self-preservation were too well-developed for that. But my whole body became rigid in a different sort of panic. If John were sexually aroused by what we were doing... he could very easily take what he wanted from me. I might be his employer, technically, but he was by far the stronger man and had been trained by some of the best experts in the world on how to subdue an opponent. I didn't have my bodyguards with me; I was all alone, and nobody knew where or with whom I was, except John himself.

Noticing my immobility, no doubt – I'd stopped responding to his tongue-wrestling – John drew back enough to observe me.

"What is it, Harold?" he asked softly. Then, when I remained silent, he added, "I haven't hurt you, have I?"

"No... not yet," I managed to reply. Even in the dim light, I could see the hurt expression on John's deeply-chiseled face.

"I never will," he stated, then lowered himself on to me again, this time his lips touching my throat. "I would never... _knowingly_ hurt you, Harold. I just want to... _touch_ you..."

"Is... Is that _all_, Mr. Reese?" I asked, with a pointed nudge at his masculinity with one leg.

"No... that's not _all_ I want to do," he admitted freely, though his voice was devoid of the flirting tone it usually held. "But I would never do anything that... you don't want me to, Harold. It has to be something that we _both_ want. But that doesn't mean... I can't try to... _persuade_ you... does it?"

I had to admit that he had a point. Even though he had caught me by surprise, if I were to be completely honest, I would have to concede that I... rather _liked_ some of what he was doing. The tongue probing I could do without, but... it felt rather good to be held, the way he was holding me now. Even the way his lips traveled over my skin was... exciting, in a way... titillating. The very thought that I could elicit such a response from him – a strong, healthy, handsome man – was rather intoxicating.

"Harold," he whispered, nuzzling my earlobe with the tip of his nose, "if you don't like it, I'll stop... As soon as the neighbor stops gawking at us from his window, we can go back to being... what we were before: professional, and detached. But I want you to know... my body wouldn't react this way, if I weren't... attracted to you. If I didn't find you... adorable... and extremely smart... and... incredibly _sexy_..."

The way he was sliding his body against mine made my mouth hang open in surprise and (to my embarrassment) excitement. His hands were rubbing my chest, ribs, and abdomen so insistently and thoroughly that before I could even try to stop it, my own manhood was responding to him. I wanted to be touched more, stimulated more, _wanted_ more... It had been so long since I'd had any sexual gratification from someone else, and now that I knew for sure that John was feeling unmitigated _lust_ for me, I could allow myself to reciprocate the sentiment. His lips were traveling all over my neck, and with one hand he was unbuttoning my shirt so he could delve down deeper along my skin—

A bright light was beamed into my eyes, nearly blinding me, and before I had the chance to recover or even see what had caused the sudden ocular onslaught, there was a rough pounding against the car window.

"_Hey!_ You in there! Whaddaya think you're doing? This is a _family_ neighborhood, for Christ's sake!"

John must have lowered the window, since the cold night air hit my skin like ice water.

"What the hell is the matter with _you?_" he responded in a threatening tone. "Can't you see that we're busy? And if any kids are out on the street at this time of night, that's their parents' problem!"

"Oh, yeah, wise guy? Well, we're with the Neighborhood Watch, and we don't care for your kind hanging around our neighborhood. We can call the cops and have _them_ deal with you—"

"Please! No police," I gasped, struggling to bring my seat into an upright position as John extricated himself from my side of the car. "My wife... she can't find out! It would be... _devastating_ for her..."

The man with the flashlight (I could make out two others behind him) wore an expression wrought with disgust.

"You mean you have a _wife_, and you're makin' out like some high-schooler with a... another _guy?_ You're _sick_, man! And you should at least grow enough balls to _tell_ her!"

"I—I can't... She has Stage IV cancer," I lied, desperately hoping to avoid any more trouble. "I can't divorce her now, it... it just wouldn't be fair to her. She doesn't have much longer... I just want her to have a... a good memory of me... of our marriage..."

John stroked my cheek with his long fingers and sighed, "Oh, Charles... you're _such_ a sweetheart! After she's done nothing but nag at you for twenty years..."

"She's dying, John," I said, unable to come up with a good alias for him on the spur of the moment. "It's the least I can do. You know that, right? If it weren't for that... I would marry you in a heartbeat..."

He leaned in to kiss me again, passionately but without any tongue, and I did my best to return the gesture. There was a collective intake of breath from the three members of the Neighborhood Watch – who were obviously not fans of the homosexual persuasion – but they made no move to call the police.

"John... darling," I panted when we broke off, "I really should go now... I'll see you tomorrow at work."

"I know... I'll miss you," he said with such sadness in his eyes that I placed another kiss on his lips without even thinking.

"I'll miss you, too," I told him, then moved to open the car door. The Neighborhood Watch contingent backed away as though they were afraid that my gayness might be contagious, allowing me to get my bearings. "Goodnight, John," I said through the open window.

"Goodnight, Charles. I'll be dreaming of you," he murmured, then started the engine. I began my stiff walk in the opposite direction from the Powell house as he pulled away from the curb.

"H—Hey," one of the Neighborhood Watch guys said, halting my steps. "You're not from around here, are you? I never seen you before."

"No... No, I'm not. My house is three blocks from here," I replied, hoping it was far enough away to dissuade them from following me. "I asked John to drop me off here, since... well, since Evelyn likes to look out the window. I can't risk having her see me with John... and it takes a while for my leg to loosen up. She would know if I'd just been let out of a car."

They fell silent at that, having noticed my limp already (and after sitting in the car for so long, I really _was_ rather stiff) and run out of things to say. Gratefully, I made my way down the street and turned onto the next block, somewhat chilly but glad to have a moment to think and breathe on my own.

A few cars from the corner, John had found a parking spot. I slid into the passenger side, sincerely glad for the heated seat, and turned to him with an awkward smile. I had come to a decision during my short walk.

"So, Mr. Reese... do you think Mr. Powell is in any danger until morning?"

"Not with those vigilant Neighborhood Watch guys on the lookout," he answered dryly.

I nodded in agreement and announced, "In that case, I suggest we go to one of the safe houses to catch a few hours of sleep and... perhaps... pick up where we left off."

He turned a Cheshire Cat smile to me and pulled the car out into the street.


	4. A Walk in the Park

A Walk in the Park

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><p>AN: From Episode 1.17 "Baby Blue" – Reese's thoughts on the brief time spent with Leila together with Finch.

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><p>I couldn't believe the pile of stuff that Finch had bought for Leila. Granted, he must have felt responsible for her welfare (even more than for the usual Number) since she was so tiny and he had snatched her from the clinic himself. It's risky to get emotionally attached to an Asset, but in Leila's case you could hardly blame him. Even I had a hard time suppressing a smile when I saw her gnawing on one of Finch's expensive silk ties, sitting in a castle built with his precious books – although he had probably chosen ones that he didn't mind getting drooled on. But the pile of clothes really stunned me.<p>

"We're just going to show Carter that Leila's okay," I protested as Finch dressed the baby girl in layers of clothing.

"Of course, but we need to make sure that she's covered up against the cold, as well as hidden from prying eyes. You _do_ realize that there's an Amber Alert out on her."

"Yes, but people will never suspect that it's _her_ as long as we don't act suspiciously. The moment we try to hide her, people will start wondering why."

He was struggling to get her into a head-to-toe outfit, which was why he couldn't respond immediately. I gave him a hand and, once it was on her, I had to laugh. It was a teddy bear outfit, complete with ears on the hood.

"Very cute, Finch. I had no idea you were such an aficionado in baby _haute couture_."

"What? Oh, yes. It's adorable, isn't it? Plus it has the added benefit of hiding most of her head and face... possibly even her gender."

He was fussing with the hood, trying to tuck in her wispy hair, but she cried out in annoyance and managed to push the hood back with her tiny hands.

"I think she wants the top down, Finch. The sun is out today and it's not that cold."

"Mr. Reese, a baby can lose a significant amount of body heat from its head and is much more vulnerable to the cold than you are. But thankfully, I thought to get this little hat, which should be harder for her to reach..."

I couldn't help glancing at Finch's own rather vulnerable head as he placed the knitted hat on her. She fussed, but I distracted her with one of the many toys that Finch had brought back from his shopping trip, and he was able to secure her in the baby carrier without incident. He got her to drink from a bottle as I drove the car, and I found it... endearing, really, to hear him talking to her, coaxing her to take another sip while the formula was still warm.

Once at the park where we had set up the meeting with Carter, he helped me strap her on. It took a few minutes to figure out the contraption, especially since one of the belts was twisted, so we were running a bit late for the rendezvous; however, I reminded him that the surest way to call attention to ourselves was to hurry and/or act suspiciously – the safest course of action was to stroll leisurely through the park like we were just taking the little tyke out for some air. _Our_ little tyke, of course. I was tempted to grab Finch's hand and insist that it was necessary to pull off the disguise of being a happy family: two gay guys with their adopted (or surrogate-born) child. But I decided that Harold had been stressed enough for one day, and settled for walking close enough to him as to leave no room for doubt in the minds of the other people enjoying the unseasonably warm weather.

What surprised and amazed me was, how attracted people naturally are to a baby. Almost everybody we passed turned to look (except for a couple of die-hard joggers) to catch a glimpse of Leila's face, and half of them talked to us or to Leila directly, asking how old she was, et cetera.

"Oh! Just look at those beautiful eyes!" one woman gasped to her companion, and I paused to let them coochie-coo at my baby. Leila burbled contentedly as the first woman shook her tiny hand and the other one murmured another comment about how beautiful she was.

"She has her daddy's eyes, don't you think?" I asked, smiling, with a significant look over at Finch. He stopped and stared at me, turning somewhat pale as his eyes grew wide behind his glasses. The women laughed and agreed with me – and in fact, in that moment he really _DID_ look like he could be Leila's biological father. "We're so lucky," I told them, cocking my head a bit to the side to try to look my part, although it was almost funny how little attention anyone had been paying to Finch or me, since they were so focused on the cute little baby. Who knew how distracting an infant could be? The next time I needed to move around town unnoticed, all I had to do was borrow someone's baby and strap it on to myself!

We finally got to the rendezvous point, where Carter must have been waiting for a while, but even she couldn't help but be charmed by Leila. She seemed relieved to see that we were taking good care of the baby, although she did voice her objections about the means by which we were protecting her – as expected, of course. But when we went our separate ways after the meeting, I planted a kiss on our little angel's forehead while Finch wasn't looking. I'd told Carter that I was teaching Leila how to go undercover; I couldn't help wishing that we could keep the little sweetheart long enough to see her grow up. But the only life she could have, living with Finch and me, was one spent in the shadows of society, as far undercover and underground as any human being could be hidden. That's no way for a child to grow up. So I knew that if I cared for her at all, I would have to let her go... but for now, during our all-too-brief walk in the park, I could almost pretend that the three of us were a real family.


	5. Blue

Blue

* * *

><p>AN: What happens after Episode 1.17 "Baby Blue."

* * *

><p>Despite not having slept much the night before and being dog-tired, Finch could not tear himself away from his computer at the library. His thoughts swirled in circles around the events of the day and (knowing that he would not be able to sleep, anyway) he had given up on the thought of going to one of his apartments for the night. He kept several changes of clothing here, and there was a shower in a back bathroom in tolerable working order – he would clean up and do his best to look refreshed by the time Reese arrived in the morning. Not that he had any illusions about being able to fool his sharp-eyed partner.<p>

Reese did arrive, and it was, technically, morning; however, it was only 3:10AM. He seemed just as surprised to find Finch still working at his desk as Finch was to see him saunter in.

"Good morning, Mr. Reese."

"Good morning, Mr. Finch," Reese responded with amused formality. "What are you doing here at such a godforsaken hour?"

"I could ask the same of you... although I have a fairly good guess."

"Oh?"

"Yes... I thought I saw a vaguely familiar shadow lurking in the corners of a hallway at Mercy Medical. I take it that New York's Finest were making it rather difficult for you to find out anything about Detective Szymanski's condition."

"They do take care of their own," he acknowledged, sitting down next to Finch and peering into the computer. As he expected, Finch pulled up the information from the hospital – including the live feed of the hallway surveillance camera – with only a few keystrokes.

"He's still in critical condition, but he seems to have come out of surgery well enough and is relatively stable. Of course, with an abdominal injury, he has a long road of rehab ahead... as you well know."

Reese nodded without so much as a wince, his face almost expressionless as he gazed at the monitor. Finch tapped a few more keys and another window popped up.

"I took the liberty of setting up a trust fund for officers injured in the line of duty – specifically those who have been shot," Finch continued. "Each officer will receive ten thousand dollars, after taxes, to help with whatever expenses the department doesn't cover. I set it up with twenty million from an anonymous donor – ten from me and ten from you – so even here in New York City, it should last a while."

Reese turned to meet Finch's eyes wordlessly for a moment.

"Thanks. But that's not my money."

"I could take it out of your paycheck for the next twenty years or so, if that would make you feel better."

A slight twitch at the corner of Reese's mouth was all that the dry remark could elicit. Finch had sensed the gloomy shadow of his partner's mood from the moment he had walked in, which was evident in the very way the man carried himself, but now he felt it blanketing the small room with a silent chill. Hoping to disperse it, he stood up, his body protesting the movement after being so long in one position.

"It's been a rather long day, Mr. Reese... Could I interest you in some herbal tea? I would offer you something stronger, but I don't have anything stocked here..."

"Thanks. Tea sounds great."

Reese also stood and walked over to a window to stare out at the unsleeping city, while Finch put the kettle on the portable burner and pottered about preparing their tea. The silence of the taller man was heavy, but not uncomfortable, for Finch understood quite well what he was brooding over. Some things simply required more time to digest.

When the tea was ready, Finch joined Reese at the window with the mugs. They took several sips in silence, looking out through the grimy windows at the dusky twilight of the streets below. The stars overhead were obscured by the lights of the city, and even the moon was a barely visible sliver in the small patch of sky.

After a moment, Finch caught sight of Reese rubbing his left wrist (the hand holding the mug) with his right – an almost unconscious motion, no doubt caused by the continual irritation of his torn skin. Setting his mug down on the window ledge, Finch shuffled to the other room, returning with a tube of ointment. He was more concerned with the fact that Reese did not look up to see what he was doing, but of course he could do nothing about that.

"Let me see your wrists, John."

"What?" Reese said, finally stirring from his melancholy thoughts. "Oh... But I already sterilized them."

"Sterilizing is one thing; _treating_ is another," Finch insisted, taking his partner's right hand almost by force and frowning at the redness of his chafed skin. He gently dabbed and smoothed on the ointment, so focused on the task that he did not notice the vulnerable expression with which Reese was watching him. When that wrist was done to his satisfaction, he let go of it and waited, squeezing some more ointment onto his finger. Obediently, Reese set his mug down and gave him his left hand, allowing him to resume his ministrations.

"Thanks," Reese's soft voice fell on Finch's ears.

"You're welcome."

"And thanks for... not saying, 'I told you so.'"

Finch paused in his work, glancing up at Reese and seeing the woundedness in his dark eyes. He carefully chose his words, turning his attention back to Reese's wrist before speaking.

"While I admire Detective Carter's faith in the NYPD, I'm not so naïve as to think that they could have rescued Leila in time, John. If you hadn't contacted Elias... she would have been out of the country, untraceable, before the police could have caught up with those men. She has a chance at life, now – to grow up in a happy, loving home – because you did what you had to do. As inadvisable as it may have been, at least you got _results_."

Finished with applying the ointment, Finch released Reese's hand and screwed the cap back on the tube.

"I'm sorry that Carter doesn't wish to work with us anymore, but perhaps it's for the best... She was bound to start asking questions that we couldn't answer, and sooner or later we would have had to go our separate ways. I'm also very sorry about Detective Szymanski, but he knew the risks of dealing with Elias when he agreed to protect Moretti; he could have been shot at any time."

Finch looked up at Reese, making sure that his words were sinking in.

"In fact, if you hadn't been there, _Carter_ might have been the one shot by Elias' men – left to bleed out on that road with no medical help immediately forthcoming. And her loss, as you have said yourself, is not something that this city can afford."

Reese swallowed and turned away, casting his unseeing gaze out the window again. Finch set the tube of ointment on the window ledge next to the two cooled mugs of tea.

"Don't beat yourself up over this, John... You did the best you could, and you were able to save a baby girl. I know you would have died before you told Elias where to find Moretti, and so did Elias. That's why he let you rescue Leila first, so he could use her as leverage against you. But I can't help but think... Moretti is only getting what he deserves. He had Elias' mother murdered, after all! So even if he's killed in cold blood by his own son, it was of his own doing. It was either that or languish for the rest of his life in prison, and who knows which he would have preferred, anyway?"

"I don't think Elias means to execute him," Reese interrupted, a line of worry creasing his brow. "If that's all he wanted to do, he could have had him killed in prison, or even on that road... No, I'm afraid he has something more in mind for his dad – something to strengthen his control over this city. Moretti had ruled the underground once before; I'm sure he could help Elias do it again."

To that, Finch had no reply. He stared out the window as well, horrified by the scenario Reese had painted for him, his wide-open eyes reflected in the glass. Reese sighed, then picked up the tube of ointment and turned to Finch.

"But that's another battle for another day," he murmured, taking a dab of the ointment to spread it on the red gash on Finch's forehead. "We'll deal with that problem when we get to it."

"Yes... I suppose so," Finch agreed, startled at the other man's touch despite how gentle it was. "I have every confidence in your success the next time, John... as long as you aren't hampered by having to protect a baby or some other, equally helpless person."

"Thanks... I hope you're right."

Setting the tube of ointment back on the window ledge, Reese managed a faint smile.

"Thanks for the tea and... everything."

Before Finch had a chance to respond to that, Reese leaned in to place his lips on the shorter man's forehead – close to the gash but not touching it – and let them linger there.

"Goodnight, Harold," he whispered, then turned to leave the building.

A long moment later, with his mouth gone completely dry, Finch rasped, "Goodnight, John." It was hard to know if the retreating figure had heard the words, but at least Finch knew that he would be back again in a few hours, ready to take on a new Number presented to them by the Machine.


	6. Temptation

Temptation

* * *

><p>Finch knew better than to give in. He knew that the pleasure was only temporary, a fleeting thing, and that afterwards he would be assaulted by guilt for not having listened to his own better judgment. But when he saw the doughnut in the pink box that Reese had brought him – sparkling in its sugar coating, beckoning to him with tendrils of aroma tickling his nose, offering him the sweet and chewy sensation of its tender dough with even the promise of tangy, gooey jelly inside – he could not resist. He picked it up out of the box carefully, trying not to disturb the sugar on the surface, and happily, gladly took his first bite. With tremendous satisfaction, he savored the combination of sugar, fat, and carbohydrates (which would only turn into more fat without proper exercise) that he ordinarily eschewed with a passion. Now his passion was focused on the bit of deep-fried pastry, even though it held no nutritional value whatsoever. Finch didn't care. It was delicious.<p>

Reese watched Finch devouring his little morning gift – from the corner of his eye at first, then openly staring as he grew confident that his employer would not notice, so engrossed in the doughnut was he. Sipping his cup of black coffee, Reese debated whether he should reach into the box and grab the other doughnut to eat himself (since he had yet to have any breakfast), but decided that it could wait. He was much more interested in another form of pleasure... another kind of physical appetite, which he needed to satisfy more urgently.

His gaze was fixed upon the glimmer of refined sugar on Finch's upper lip. He noted how close a shave the older man had managed, as usual, with a twinge of jealousy – Reese grew a five o'clock shadow by noon. He also noticed that Finch was holding his breath as he took each bite, no doubt to prevent blowing off the delicate dusting of sweet crystals. Seeing his undisguised enjoyment filled Reese with the warmth of gratification as well. Today was a good day. There were no new numbers to chase down (as Finch had already informed him) and the object of his attention was practically eating out of his hand – like a little bird who had been tamed.

Finally, there was nothing left of the doughnut except a few grains of sugar on Finch's fingers and the shimmering mustache on his lip. Without a napkin handy, Finch resorted to cave-man etiquette, licking his fingers with his long tongue extended, deftly catching every morsel of sweetness. Reese swallowed hard as he saw that sinuous organ stroking the thick digits, then stepped closer to the other man before he could realize what was happening.

Reese knew better than to give in. He knew that the pleasure was only temporary, a fleeting thing, and that afterwards he would be assaulted by guilt for not having listened to his own better judgment. But when he saw Finch's pink tongue flickering out of his mouth – glistening in its saliva coating, beckoning to him with its dexterous twists and curls, offering him the sweet and slimy sensation of its tender muscle with even the promise of exploring the dark recesses behind it – he could not resist. He pushed Finch against a wall carefully, trying not to hurt his injured neck, and lustily, passionately stole his first kiss. With enormous satisfaction, he savored the combination of shock, fear, and desire (which would only grow stronger as he continued this exercise) that the other man was exuding. Now Finch was returning the movements of Reese's tongue and lips, even though he had received no previous coaching whatsoever. Reese didn't care. It was perfect.


	7. Book Sale

Book Sale

* * *

><p>AN: From a plotbunny supplied by Lady_Quadress on LJ.

* * *

><p>They had just finished up a case that morning, and for a change there were no new Numbers queued up in the system. With the early onset of spring, the weather outside was beautiful – high seventies and plenty of sunshine – so Finch had seemed quite happy to give Reese the rest of the day off. As Reese walked back towards his current residence (a hotel in an upscale neighborhood), he wondered how he should spend his free time. Working out in a gym seemed a terrible waste of the nice weather. He decided to just walk around the city for a while; he liked walking, and it was always good to get more familiar with the territory – there were constantly new alleys and hiding places to be found in a place like New York. In his line of work, he never knew when that sort of information might come in handy.<p>

It was Saturday, Reese belatedly realized as a group of children swarmed past him on their way to the park. Everybody seemed to be hitting the streets to enjoy the warmth. As he neared a crowded corner intersection, he noticed that a business across the way had set out tables on the sidewalk to hawk their wares: books. Piles and piles of books. The shiny plastic covers on them first made him wonder, and as he crossed the street to investigate, the tell-tale white labels on their spines became apparent. They were old library books. Glancing up at the building, he smiled faintly to himself at the recollection of Finch's words upon their first – no, second meeting. "The downfall of Western civilization," he had called it. The fact that so many libraries were being shut down due to lack of funding, as well as lack of interest. Reese thought it might be a welcome change of pace to find a good book (preferably a spy novel, since most of them were so unrealistic that they made him laugh) to sit down and read somewhere, perhaps in the park where he had taken that memorable walk with Finch. It had been a long time since he had last read a book from cover to cover.

The first table he came to was filled with political commentaries, which a couple of older gentlemen were looking over as they exchanged germane criticisms. The next table was biographies and memoirs of celebrities – he walked straight past it. The next was cookbooks and coffee table books, with colorful pictures that caught his eye, if only for a moment. Realizing that there were far more tables laid out inside, Reese squeezed past a pair of giggling teenagers in the doorway, searching for the smaller paperbacks of his preferred genre. It took a moment for his eyes to grow accustomed to the relative darkness in the lobby, but then he spotted a familiar head at the end of a corridor, bent over a table with intense concentration. Finch already had an armload of books that he seemed to be having difficulty holding together as he reached for another with his free hand.

Reese approached the other man stealthily, although he hardly needed to – Finch was engrossed in the titles he was perusing. Sidling up behind him for maximum effect, Reese could not suppress the smile that broke out on his face or the amusement that crept into his voice.

"Can I carry your books for you?"

Finch jumped, startled, and promptly dropped half of the books in his arm. The rest he clutched at an awkward angle against his body, trying to retain his grip on them, while Reese crouched to gather the ones on the floor.

"M-Mr. Reese. I thought I'd given you the rest of the day off," Finch said, trying (and failing) to not sound annoyed.

"You did. I was just in here looking for some reading material," Reese replied as he stood up, then waved one of the books he had recovered. "I didn't know _Vanity Fair_ was available in hardcover."

"Ha, ha. Very funny," Finch said without humor. "I'm rescuing these classics from being bandied about by literary ignoramuses who really _don't_ know the difference between Thackeray and Thoreau."

"Sounds good. But you already have a _building_ full of books, Finch. Do you really need any more?"

"It's not a question of 'need', Mr. Reese. It's a question of... of preserving works of art that are being destroyed every day like so much chattel," he insisted, returning his gaze to the bindings before him.

"If you say so," Reese said, pulling the rest of the books out of Finch's arms. "But I don't know when you plan to find the time to read all of them... even the ones you already have."

"I've already _read_ all the important ones, of course," Finch retorted, gathering three more into his arm. "That's why I know what they're worth."

Reese grinned and affected to sound surprised. "You mean you're buying books that you've already _read?_ Just so you can put them on your bookshelves?"

Finch stopped and turned to look Reese directly in the face. "Yes, Mr. Reese. That's _exactly_ what I'm doing. Now, if you don't mind, I would like to continue my shopping in peace."

"Well, if you find this sort of thing enjoyable... even therapeutic, I wouldn't dream of distracting you," Reese replied, with just a hint of a pout in his tone. "But I was rather hoping that you'd help me pick out a good book... maybe even join me on a warm bench somewhere to actually _read_ it. Assuming you could find a book that you haven't read already..."

Finch paused in his reaching for another book. "Oh. So... you were thinking of actually... reading something?"

"If you can find something interesting for me."

The challenge and coyness in Reese's expression were unmistakable.

"All right, then," Finch slowly responded. "I'm sure I can come up with _something_ in all of this..."

Reese allowed himself an indulgent smile as he looked forward to some quiet, quality time spent with Finch – for a change, out in the light of the sun.


	8. Breakfast at Tierny's

Breakfast at Tierny's

* * *

><p>AN: After Episode 1.19, "Flesh and Blood".

* * *

><p>"Very good, Mr. Reese," Finch responded to his operative's report that the subject (a would-be kidnapper) had been subdued. "I'll confirm that the police find him with the evidence you've set out. I'll see you in the morning."<p>

"Actually, Finch, I was wondering if you'd care to join me for breakfast," Reese replied as he checked the knots of the rope that bound the unconscious man. "I found this great little place – Tierny's, over by Columbus and 85th. They only use organic produce. I think you'd like it."

"Oh?" Finch said, somewhat dubiously.

"Don't worry – most of their security cameras are dummies. Only the one trained on the cash register is working."

"I hesitate to ask how you know this, Mr. Reese..."

"You're not the only one who knows how to hack into a security system, Finch," Reese smiled. "I'll be there around seven-thirty... but feel free to get started without me if I'm running late."

It occurred to Finch that he had never agreed to meet Reese for breakfast in so many words, but since he didn't have any other plans for the next morning, he decided to go along with it. After all, he didn't want to become predictable, and if this new restaurant were any good, it would be one more location he could add to his list of public meeting places.

* * *

><p>He found the café easily enough and was intrigued that Reese had thought he would like it. It was almost completely glassed in, giving it a very bright, airy feeling, but which also made it susceptible to prying eyes as well as every street cam nearby. However, the interior was very smart, modern, and chic, with brand-new faux leather seats alternating between burgundy and black, and the artwork on the simulated oak-wood walls, while mass-produced copies, were tasteful. He had arrived a few minutes early despite Reese's warning that he might be late, so he went ahead and ordered a broccoli-and-cheese omelette and a bowl of fresh fruit along with his green tea.<p>

Having chosen a table by the window, he had a commanding view of the street in both directions, and as such he was able to see Reese approaching from a good distance. It was hard to miss him, as tall as he was, especially if one knew what to look for. Even if one didn't, Reese was rather conspicuous this morning since he was surrounded by several women – of a wide range of ages, dressed in varying levels of formality – who were apparently all trying to talk to him at once. Finch's brows furrowed in an unconscious frown as he remembered: yoga class. This was Thursday. No doubt Reese had found this diner because of its proximity to the gym.

Finch stuck his fork into a piece of pineapple with unnecessary force before devouring the hapless morsel. He had been in an unwontedly good mood this morning, which he had dismissed as being due to the warm weather and the blooming flowers, but now it felt as though his bubble had been burst. Though he could barely admit it, the realization that Reese was enjoying himself, meeting new people and trying new things without him, made Finch feel isolated and – in a vague but unmistakable way – bereft. He had to swallow hard to get the pineapple down past the lump which had formed in his throat; he didn't even bother looking up as Reese walked in with his giggling, chattering entourage.

"Harold!" Reese called out, his voice bright and happy – which only made Finch feel even more dour. However, he could hardly ignore him now, so he looked up at Reese with the intent of delivering some snide remark as to the younger man's prowess at yoga. The brilliant, genuine smile on Reese's face made the words die on Finch's lips.

"Sorry I'm late," Reese said in an intimate undertone as he neared the booth. "The girls were telling me about this great new Indian restaurant in Parkside and we missed the light."

Finch was further startled when Reese, instead of sliding into the seat across from him, bent over him and planted his lips – gently but firmly – on his cheek.

"What are you having? The broccoli omelette? I haven't tried that yet," Reese continued, sitting down as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened. "I usually just get the corned beef hash special, but that _does_ look good..." He grinned ingenuously and cocked his head a little to one side. "What's the matter, Harold? Cat got your tongue?"

In fact, Finch felt like he had swallowed it, although he would have choked on it if he had. He simply continued to stare at Reese in disbelief.

A perky waitress showed up to take Reese's order – his usual corned beef hash special with coffee – and by the time she left Finch had resumed breathing again.

"What the hell was _that_ all about?" he demanded, his voice low but his displeasure clear.

"What? Can't I kiss my boyfriend good morning?" Reese replied with perfect aplomb, only the edges of his mouth twitching upward. "I'd told the girls all about you, but they still wouldn't leave me alone, so I wanted to make sure they knew that I was in a _committed_ relationship. Of course, now that they've seen you, they might try to make a pass at _you_... but you won't let anyone get between us, would you Harold? Not after everything we've been through..."

Reese's eyes were twinkling with mischief, just as they had been when he had surprised Finch at the software programming office. Finch blinked, processing this new information, and schooled his features into a somewhat patronizing smile.

"Of course not, _dear_... as if any _woman_ could take your place!" he managed.

"Aww... You do say the sweetest things," Reese purred, reaching over to place his hand over Finch's. He pretended not to notice the approaching figures as he remarked, "We really should do this more often, Harold. I'm sure your office can get along without you for an extra half-hour in the morning."

"Uh... Hi," one of the women nervously interrupted. "You must be Harold. John has told us all about you! It's so nice to finally have a face to go with the name..."

"Ah... He has, has he?" Finch responded, acting convincingly embarrassed. "I hope he didn't tell you... _too_ much..."

"Oh, it was _all good_," another woman assured him. "In fact, he can't say enough good things about you!"

"And it's _all true_," Reese put in, unabashedly pulling Finch's hand over the table to kiss his knuckles. "He's too modest to admit it, but Harold is the nicest, sweetest man I've _ever_ met!"

There was a slight pause before the women tittered and made their excuses to leave, afterwards congregating at another table where they obviously leaned in to discuss John's "boyfriend". Finch was blushing furiously, and he no longer needed to _act_ embarrassed.

"I hope you're happy now, _darling_," he murmured with suppressed fury.

"Perfectly, _honey_," Reese replied, releasing Finch's hand at last as his own food was set down on the table. "Like I said – we need to do this more often."

Although Finch had felt his hackles rise upon being backed into a figurative corner, he couldn't help noticing that the lump in his throat had disappeared as quickly as it had formed. With Reese smiling at him across the table, enjoying his breakfast, Finch decided that he _did_ like this diner, very much.


	9. Regrets

Regrets

* * *

><p>AN: Missing scenes during and after Episode 1.21 "Many Happy Returns". Non-Rinch (or at least, not specifically Rinch).

* * *

><p>Finch had many regrets in his life – too numerous to mention – but the latest one had left him gasping for breath. When Reese had disconnected his cell, shutting out Finch's pleas to allow law enforcement to handle Jennings, Finch had called his name several times, but in vain. The constriction in his chest then had nothing to do with the condition of his health and everything to do with the awful suspicion that Reese was done, finished – that he would not work with him on the Numbers again. When he had finally managed to calm himself enough to breathe properly, Finch reached out to Detective Carter in a last-ditch effort to stop Reese before he did something that they would <em>all<em> regret: make good on his threat to kill Jennings. As much as the wife-abuser deserved it, Finch did not want Reese to abase himself to that monster's level, for Finch wanted to believe that Reese was _not_ a monster, regardless of how Reese might view himself.

When even Carter had not been able to persuade Reese, Finch had given up all hope. This was it, then – Reese would become the nightmare that the CIA had tried so hard to mold him into. Finch could not reach him. He would have to find someone else and start anew. The very thought was abhorrent, but he was left with no other choice. Reese had driven Jennings' car out of New York, taking Interstate 78 into Pennsylvania, driving non-stop at highway speeds...

And that was when Finch realized that Reese had not removed the SIM card from his cell, allowing Finch to track his movements even though Reese refused to pick up Finch's repeated calls. As Finch watched the dot indicating Reese's location, it sped through Virginia, making a brief stop at Roanoke, then continued into Tennessee, straight through Knoxville but stopping overnight in Chattanooga. It continued going south and west to Houston, where it made another stop or two, then headed towards the border with Mexico.

Finch knew Reese had worked for the Agency in Mexico before and was fluent in Spanish. Perhaps he had some connections there – even people he could blackmail – and was planning to disappear completely. But then, why would he allow Finch to track his whereabouts? Why not throw the SIM card out of the car window somewhere and cut ties with him altogether? The dot on the computer screen stopped once again in Monterrey, and in less than an hour it was making its way back along its original route, heading east and north. Finch finally realized what had happened – what Reese had chosen to do, rather than devolving into the killing machine which he had resisted becoming for so many years. Having heard him threaten Jennings, Finch had imagined the worst; however, he should have trusted Reese's own moral compass to hold true.

Under the circumstances, Finch did the only logical thing he could think of – he sent a text to Reese's cell, hoping that the other man would read it even if he didn't respond. The message was short and simple: "I'm sorry." Sorry not only for having deceived him – despite having promised to never lie to his operative – but also for not having trusted him. Finch hoped it would be enough, but he could not be certain. Reese had sounded angrier than he had ever heard him before. Even when Finch had awoken him to the sound of recorded screams, Reese's response had been merely reactionary. What Finch had heard in his voice just before he had hung up was cold fury. If the man never returned to work for him again, Finch could hardly blame him.

There were new Numbers that the Machine allowed him to download, new people who needed help in their dire circumstances, but Finch did not know how to help them anymore. He passed one or two numbers along to Carter, having hacked their personal information enough to give her a good idea what to look for, but his heart simply was not in it. He wandered through the library, picking up random books to read, only to realize that his eyes were skimming over the words without comprehending any of them. He returned often to his computer, following the dot of Reese's cell as it made its laborious way back (he hoped) to New York. When he could stand the uncertainty no longer, he would walk through the city. Often he sat on the bench under the bridge where he had first spoken to Reese, looking back over the months they had worked together. He came to one conclusion: that even if Reese wanted out, and they never worked on another case again, it had been worth it. Worth all of their disagreements and (at times) downright arguments, for the chance at being able to _do_ something about the Numbers. To have made a difference, in at least a few people's lives. If Reese wanted to part ways, he would allow him to do so, with his blessing.

Another, minor regret that Finch had was having forgotten to give Reese the address of the apartment building. He had been so focused on getting Reese out of the library that morning – so concentrated on deceiving him – that he had forgotten to give him the information he needed. If Reese had had the address, he might have spent the day inspecting the apartment, perhaps even shopping for a few items to spruce up the place to his liking; instead, he had spent the morning in the park, the afternoon wandering around the city, then another lonely evening in the cramped, dilapidated apartment where he'd been staying. Finch would have kicked himself if it were anatomically possible. No wonder Reese had been in such a bad mood the next day when he'd accosted Finch on the street. No wonder he had been following Finch – out of sheer boredom if nothing else.

As much as Finch had been relieved to be rescued by Reese from Jennings' interrogation, he had felt as though the bottom of his stomach had fallen out when he'd seen Reese approaching, his brows like thunderclouds. The tense silence in the car as Reese had driven them back to the library had almost crackled with caustic electricity. Deciding that the best defense was a good offense, Finch had attempted to deflect some of Reese's anger by pointing out that the former agent had been following him, but his accusation had been weak and easily overridden. Reese was rightfully angry that Finch had been working a case without him – it had been a breach of trust, on top of the outright lie that Finch had told him. And Finch was honest enough to admit that Reese had probably only been following him to protect him, to make sure that he didn't get in over his head.

All things considered, he could not blame Reese at all if he never returned. Humbled, bereft, and feeling the chill of loneliness seeping into his bones once again, Finch continued to sit on the cold, wind-swept bench by the river. And he waited.

* * *

><p>It was a long drive to Mexico, but an even longer drive back. On the way down, Reese had been focused, intent on his mission (or at least his goal – could it be called a "mission" when it was solely his own idea?) to dump that piece of human filth in a hell-hole where he would rot until kingdom come. It had been easy enough to break into a drug dealer's hideout in Houston to snatch the cocaine he needed to have Jennings incarcerated; he figured he was doing the Houston Police Department a favor as well. He had bought some supplies before going in, though – a hooded sweatshirt and a pair of jeans, along with some clean underwear – so that the "man in a suit" description wouldn't trigger the CIA or FBI's search teams to take a closer look at the heist. It had all gone smoothly, and after ensuring that the warden would call Carter to reassure her, let her know that he wasn't a killer, he had begun heading back the way he had come. Now that he didn't have Jennings in the trunk, however, it was harder to concentrate on the road. It was also tedious, with nothing in particular to think about and nobody to talk to; not that he had talked to Jennings on the way down, of course, but Reese had grown accustomed to having Finch's voice buzzing in his ear. Not having to wear the earwig was a relief, but he was finding the long hours on seemingly endless highways so mundane that several times he caught himself reaching for the cell, just to have someone to talk to, and only stopped himself at the last moment. He was extremely tired as well, from having driven so many days almost non-stop, so he was forced to stay overnight in a few motels to catch up on some much-needed sleep.<p>

One of those mornings, he came out of the shower and put on his clean clothes, having washed his white oxford shirt the night before and hung it up to dry. He would have been more comfortable in the jeans and a t-shirt, but he knew that if he were pulled over for speeding by the local police, he would present a more respectable appearance in the suit. As he grabbed his cell off the bedside table to tuck it into his pocket, he checked it (almost out of habit) for any missed calls, and saw that there had been an incoming text message.

"I'm sorry."

That was all Finch had sent him. Reese read it several times to let it sink into his mind. It was the first time in a long while that Finch had reached out to him. Sure, Finch had tried to call him, many times, on his way out of New York; however, after being consistently and thoroughly ignored, he had given up at last. Reese debated with himself whether he had wanted an apology out of Finch. He could imagine the tech-savvy man listening in on the conversation between the warden and Carter, which would have informed him as to Jennings' fate. Reese wondered if that was what had changed Finch's mind – knowing that Reese had _not_ killed him in cold blood. Of course Finch had considered Reese capable of such a murder... and Reese was surprised at how much that thought had hurt, even though he knew quite well himself that he _was_ capable of it. Or at least, he had been, once upon a time. Finch must have known that, too, which would have been reason enough for him to worry about Reese stooping to such desperate measures again. And he very easily could have. Reese would be the first person to admit it. Yet when Finch had tried to stop him, to persuade him to let the local law enforcement handle Jennings, his hackles had risen at the fact that Finch had assumed the worst of him. It would have been easy to tell him what he actually planned to do with Jennings – just a few words would have sufficed – but instead, he had lashed out, telling him to hire someone else if he didn't like how Reese was handling things. If he couldn't trust Reese to do the right thing.

And that, Reese realized, was the crux of the whole matter: trust. He had felt hurt when he'd discovered that Finch was working a case without him; even worse when he knew that Finch was aware of what had happened in New Rochelle; and downright _patronized_ when Finch admitted to keeping him out of the loop because of his supposed "sensitivities." In all of his years of working for the military and then the CIA, Reese had never been mollycoddled, and his first response towards Finch had been seething anger at being slighted, even insulted. He had still been angry when Finch had called to dissuade Reese from (as he'd supposed) killing Jennings, so Reese had let his resentment spew forth from his lips unrestrained. That bitterness had lasted well into his trip south, making him refuse to answer Finch's calls with stony-faced silence.

Now, as Reese got back into the car for another hard day of driving, he could feel no anger, no resentment, no bitterness. He was just tired beyond words, and had this irrational desire to go _home_. He didn't even have a home, really, but he wanted to go back to someplace familiar – and the only place that even remotely fit that bill was New York. The Big Apple. Where he could get lost among the millions of nameless faces. Where he might still do the world a bit of good, make a difference for the better. _If_ Finch would take him back. If Finch would trust him to do, not only what needed to be done, but the right thing.

When Reese stopped at a gas station later in the morning, using the facilities and buying a few food items to keep himself running as well, he paused before he turned the key in the ignition. Pulling out his cell, he read once again the words that Finch had sent him. After a moment's thought, he typed in a response: "I'm sorry, too." Sorry for the hasty words spoken in anger. Sorry for blaming Finch for thinking him capable of cold-blooded murder, when he knew full well that he was. Sorry for not seeing Finch's concern for what it truly was: concern. As he drove back onto the highway, Reese was finally able to admit to himself that Finch had only done what he had done – lied to him to keep him off the case – out of concern for his feelings. Finch hadn't wanted to dredge up some of the worst memories in Reese's head. Not on his birthday. Finch had only wanted to give him a day off, to give him some freedom and space and time without pain, just one day out of the year.

Reese gritted his teeth as he stepped on the accelerator, perhaps a little harder than was wise, but with renewed purpose and eagerness to get back to New York. To Finch, who cared about him – not just as an asset, but as a person, who had real feelings and needs. However misguided Finch's concern might have been, Reese knew that he was the only person on the planet who cared for him that much, and he could not afford to lose him. He pushed the car even faster as he headed home.

* * *

><p>"I was beginning to wonder when I was gonna hear from you again."<br>"I had some business to take care of out of town."  
>"I trust you now fully appreciate why I couldn't tell you about Sarah's case..."<br>"I hope you now understand why you should have."

* * *

><p>The address Finch had given him was for a spacious apartment on the border of Little Italy and Chinatown, overlooking the park where Reese spent a good portion of his free time. He had befriended the blind Chinese man and learned words and phrases in the man's mother tongue, hoping someday to be able to translate what he had heard the software engineer say to Stanton. Reese smiled to himself as he considered how to give Finch a hard time about tracking him on his off days, in spite of his claim that he "respected his privacy" – although he knew Finch would retort by pointing out that Reese had followed him on more than one occasion and even had Fusco tail him. But there would be no rancor in Reese's teasing anymore. He could see that the apartment had been furnished with care, even though it was sparse; every item spoke of Finch's thoughtfulness and consideration. Reese would never take that sort of care for granted.<p>

When he arrived at the library after a good night's sleep in the large bed that Finch had outfitted at his new apartment, it was with a peace offering of doughnuts and green tea. Finch looked up from the desk, where he had been running an investigation on the Numbers in their queue.

"Good morning, Finch," Reese said, setting down the pink box.

"Good morning, Mr. Reese. I hope you found your new accommodations adequate," Finch asked rather blandly – what Reese interpreted to be evidence of his caution.

"More than adequate. Thanks." Reese sat down in the other chair and looked directly into Finch's eyes as he said so. He wanted Finch to know that his gratitude was sincere. But he also wanted Finch to know a few other things as well. "Before we get into the next case, we need to talk."

"I see..." Finch murmured, then pushed his chair back from the desk so he could give Reese his undivided attention. "It's my understanding that when someone says, 'we need to talk,' it's best to listen. I'm listening, Mr. Reese."

Inwardly wincing at his employer's formal address, Reese chose his words. He had rehearsed what he wanted to say, over and over in his mind the night before, but now he struggled to reclaim those words.

"I appreciate the time and effort you put into selecting that apartment for me," he finally managed. "I was going to needle you for tracking my moves, but... I appreciate your thoughtfulness. And... I regret how harsh I was in my response to you, when I found out you were working that case without me. I... It hurt, to think that you didn't trust me for the job."

There. The words were out there, curdling in the air, but at least he had managed to spit them out. Finch stared at him in surprise, then his eyes quickly turned kind and compassionate.

"John... it wasn't because I didn't trust you. That wasn't the reason at all! I only grew worried about... what your intentions were regarding Jennings, _after_ you threatened him. Please believe me, I had no intention of slighting your abilities or... or casting doubt on your character."

"No... The fact is, you would have been right," Reese countered. "I got defensive when you suspected the worst of me, when the truth is, you had every right to. And I know you were just trying to spare me from... reliving something painful. But what I want you to realize, Finch, is that helping Sarah (or whatever her real name is) was as much about helping _me_ get over the past as it was for her. I needed to _be there in time_ for her, because... because I wasn't able to, for Jessica."

Finch drew in a sudden breath, not having seen it in that light before.

"I see... yes. In that respect, it was a form of... closure."

"Yes. So in the future, if we get more cases like that... please don't try to 'spare' me. I can handle it. In fact, that's the one kind of case that I... I would get the most satisfaction from solving."

Finch nodded once, slowly. "I can appreciate that, John."

"And there's one more thing..."

"Only one?" Finch queried, with something of his usual humor in his tone.

Reese's mouth quirked in a faint smile in response. "The next time you want to do something nice for me... don't give me a day off. I'd rather keep busy, working."

"All right," Finch replied, his voice gentle. "But perhaps now that you have a place to call your own, you could find some sort of hobby with which to occupy your free time."

"Like what?"

"Oh, I don't know... painting? _Bonsai_ gardening? You could fit a grand piano in that room if you wanted to, you know – the previous owner did."

Reese pursed his lips as though considering it, then responded, "I can't play the piano."

"You could learn. Or maybe a drum set would be better?"

With a snort of a laugh, Reese finally smiled. "I'm sure the neighbors wouldn't be pleased."

"Possibly," Finch conceded. "Mr. Reese... may I make one request of you as well?"

"Of course," Reese answered without hesitation.

"When you left for Mexico... I had no idea where you were going, or how long you would be gone... or even, if you would ever come back..." Reese cringed to see the pain in Finch's face, but the older man continued quietly. "Please... don't shut me out again. If you need me to back off, and give you some room to work in, just say so. When you left... I felt so... _useless_. I could have helped you by distracting the police in the areas you were passing through, or set up reservations at motels... _Anything_ would have been better than just sitting here, waiting for you... just as powerless and helpless as I'd been before I'd enlisted your help. You've no idea how frustrating that can be..."

Reese swallowed hard. He _did_ know how frustrating it was to be so helpless – it was exactly how he'd felt after realizing, too late, that Jessica had reached out to him for help, and that he had been unable to save her. He could easily imagine how tortuous it had been for Finch, seeing the Numbers come in but unable to gather intel on them like Reese, or follow them, or operate in any of their usual methods. All he could do was work his magic on the computer which, while considerable, was no substitute for good, solid legwork. Reese knew that he had left Finch in the lurch, and for several very long days.

"I'm sorry, Finch," he said, his penitence genuine. "It won't happen again. I... I'll never do that to you again."

Finch met his eyes, took a deep breath, and nodded.

"I'm glad to hear that. Now, we have a lot of catching up to do. Our first Number owns a restaurant in the Bronx..."

Reese was finally able to breathe again, too, as they settled into their usual routine once more.


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